The Sum of All Odds
by MistroStrings
Summary: FIFTH *FINAL* BOOK! I looked ahead at the man I once believed to be a ghost. His skin echoed of our adventures. My love left his skin cracked with frustration and smiles. Trying to ignore my racing heart, I glanced away and tried to comprehend what Sherlock Holmes was telling me. Moriarty's plans had not yet finished. It was the start of an ending I could not predict. Sherlock/OC
1. The Guest

**And we're back! Ladies, and most likely no Gentleman (if there are any gentleman, can you make yourself known?) we now begin the final installment of the Renadale series! I haven't actually thought of a name for the series as a whole, so I'm just rolling with that one. **

**At any rate, I have no idea if they're going to make another film. I'm not sure how long it will be in the movie until John sees Sherlock again. So, when the third film comes out, you should probably not relate it to my story. Or maybe you can make up what Renadale partakes in during the film? :)**

**Thank you all for your amazing words. So many people have asked if I've ever written a book or would like to. To that, I answer you… Yes! I'm working on something right now, and although I won't be able to post it on Fanfiction, I might be able to find somewhere else to upload it. Or maybe if I feel really confident about it, I'll send it to a company. Who knows?**

**The future is what you make it.**

**Yours ever truly,**

**Mistro**

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

_Six months later._

England is a country of mysteries, beauty and history. The North provides the darkness of rain and the smog of industry, while its people burrow themselves in a more hostile lifestyle. Their lives never stop. Their sleep is little. But their minds are always racing.

The center of England is full of rolling hills that inspire poets, actors, and writers from every corner of the world. Though the farmers themselves have little care for the art of words, they also bask in the glory of their fields and gardens. A carrot or beetroot the size of their arm is the true glory in life. And though it seems small, perhaps it has always been the smallest of pleasures that matter most.

The south is where the true magic is said to happen. It is where history comes to life, where rulers dominate, where foreigners find the pumping heart of England.

I was fortunate enough to grow up in that 'magical' part of the country, but the magic kept itself well hidden from my eyes. There had been a yearning in me since my youth to begin a gentle chapter of my life's tale. London was no longer the place for me as I inched towards my third decade of life. The disappearance of carriages, beggars and street fights made for a much _quieter_ way of living, and therefore I had more time to think my own thoughts and feel my own emotions.

For six months I had been in Titchfield. I had packed my bags and left shortly after John Watson took his leave, and surprisingly my mother made no note of complaint. She struggled to not follow in my path, but her words remained as such:

"I have wilted over you for far too long. I must find my own sunshine, and learn once again to grow on my own."

And so, I left with an uneasy heart, but skillfull determination.

The houses of Titchfield were mostly made from brick, which were similar to those in London. Titchfield houses had much more space for privacy, however, and I think I can safely say that they housed a much more respectable kind of person. Everyone knew the details of their neighbors' personal lives, and if they didn't, it would be an easy sort of thing to figure out.

The community was pleasant enough. There was a sale of fresh groceries in the market hall each Saturday morning. I made sure to never miss such a simple pleasure upon moving into my new home. Roman ruins lined the edge of the town, reminding me of that historical feel in the Southern part of the country.

Nothing new happened. Nothing ever changed. Though Titchfield had everything to live by, there was _one_ mystery in the town. People would whisper about it when they thought other ears had turned. Curious citizens would flick back their curtains to see if they could get a better glimpse at it, albeit without being noticed themselves.

Me.

_I_ was the mystery of Titchfield.

Where had she come from? Why did she travel alone? They guessed at London upon first meeting, but my shy demeanor and lack of cosmopolitan interest caused them to review their examination. Others guessed Manchester, as my pale skin would be fitting for the rainy city, but again something was off by my good complexion and comprehensible accent.

I did not mind being an enigma. In fact, I rather enjoyed it. If I could no longer solve mysteries, why should I not become one? They were a part of me and I a part of them.

I made sure to keep my house on the outskirts of town where only good friends could make their appearance known without secrecy. My garden was lush and many admired it on their walks into the forests bordering the town. However, no one stopped for tea. No one rang the door or delivered the post. My life was solitary, and that was something I could live with.

John had come by once since the move, and I could tell by his stature that he had been getting along splendidly with Mary. Better yet, I could see that the images of our late companion were starting to haunt him lesser by the hour. We exchanged letters every week at the start, updating one another about our books, gardens, secret desires to travel, and health. My mother and I wrote letters that were hardly different. These were the only people I truly needed in my life and I had them.

I considered myself a rather fortunate woman.

My body had regained flesh. My lips grew pink again, perhaps in the shadow of my rosy cheeks. My eyes had managed to accumulate their familiar twinkle, though there would never be a full spark of life in them again.

To say the least, I was pleased with my new life. Perhaps there had been moments where I was even happy. But time had taught me that happiness was not what you always needed. It was what we desired, but living a comfortable life with shelter and food was better than most had. A new century was dawning on us, and times grew harder as the years trekked on.

Though Moriarty had died, the hostilities he had created lingered. France and Germany continued to tear at the other's throat. England seemed to hate everyone and without a very good excuse at all. America kept her mouth quiet as foreign affairs were not her concern. The late years of the nineteenth century were filled with fury and hatred, and therefore I found comfort in the peaceful quiet of my cabin near the trees.

As the sun fell back into her slumber each day, and the moon came out to play with that familiar smile, I tried not to remind myself just how displeased I really was.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

"_Renadale?"_

No. Wake up.

"_I know you can hear me. You must know that I'm still living."_

My body tossed violently as the sound rang through my head. I knew I was half asleep and nothing was halting me from arising from my bed. Two steps and I could be walking towards the kitchen and away from this nightmare.

"_Sherlock, you cannot be living. You died. I saw you."_

"_Renadale, I know you can hear me."_

The voice startled me, but somehow I wanted linger in its presence for just a moment longer. My eyes remained shut with a squeeze. One more minute.

"_Yes, I can hear you. Can you hear me?"_

"_Renadale, are you listening?"_

"_Sherlock? Hello? Why can you not hear me?" _

"_I have to go, Renadale. I have to leave."_

"_Sherlock, wait-"_

"_Good-bye."_

"_Wait!"_

"Please, don't go!" My body flung forward from my bed with a desperate plea. It was not the first time this dream had tormented me. My fingers ran into my eyelids, not surprised to feel the wetness of tears making their new home upon my fingertips. Every night I had this dream. Each time grew more violent; more desperate.

Though it was a dream, I couldn't help but feel uncomfortable with it. I had never had a 'conversation' dream before and couldn't understand what exactly it meant. I was completely aware that it was happening, but my body wouldn't wake up. John Watson might have given me an explanation, but his presence was elsewhere. I was alone.

Sherlock Holmes. The man that I loved. The man that loved me. He was taken from me over six months ago in the cruelest of ways. Whatever God was out there hated me- surely he must- for I had never suffered so long and so deeply.

My exterior was calm when I walked throughout the town. It was calm when I wrote my letters. My hands were even steady as they planted carnations in the lawn. There had always been something missing from my soul. There just was not anyone in Titchfield to take note of it. Sanity, perhaps. Comfort. Happiness. It had all left me and made a solemn vow to never return in full.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

I pulled the covers up to my chin in surprise. Was that the door? My weary thoughts turned into ones filled with shock. My tired eyes flickered towards the clock lying on my bed stand. _2:00 AM. _News coming this late could never be good. Was it a burglar? Was it Moriarty back from the dead? Was I still dreaming? Or worse…

My mother.

I flew from the bed at the first thought of her. My nightgown and tangled hair meant nothing to me. _Please, please, let everything be all right. Let my mother be safe and well. _I had expected a doctor, a priest, or anyone that had death following at their heels to appear on my doorstep. My fingers struggled to take hold of the doorknob, but once done, part of me wished that I hadn't bothered to open it.

It was him.

"_You_," I breathed incredulously. There was a supreme lack of words for the bewilderment that found me.

The man tilted his hat towards the crown of his head. This offered me a more personal view of his face, and I knew that my suspicions had been confirmed. The shape of his lips. The cut of his cheekbones. The flash of darkness in those eyes. I would have known Thomas Smith from twenty miles off.

"Renadale Adkins. It is _so_ good to see you."

~.~.~.~.~

**Fun fact, for all of you who don't already know. I live in Manchester, England and therefore I have the right to claim that it is a bit rainy and that the people are difficult to understand. :P But if you ever go to England, please visit it! It's an absolutely amazing city filled with so many things to do.**

**And much of the BBC show "Sherlock" was filmed there, so maybe you can catch up on your sleuthing while you're in town.**

**And who knows. Maybe you'll pass MistroStrings on the street and never even know. ;)**

**Review please! *In Les Mis voice* ANOTHER STORY MUST BEGIIIIIIIN!**

**Right-o. Review please. xxx**


	2. Just Like Old Times

**YOU DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH I MISSED YOU GUYS. Okay, I know it's only been a month, but that doesn't alter my feelings. Thank you for the positive feedback on the first chapter! I'm glad you all are enjoying it- even without Sherlock, ahaha!**

**A question for you… do you feel like you have connected with Renadale throughout these stories? Or is she merely a fictional character you enjoy reading about?**

**Much love & looking forward to your reviews,**

**Mistro**

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Rage trickled through my bones. What right did Thomas Smith have to show up at my house in the late hours of the night- the morning, even? What could he possibly have to tell me that was more important than my struggle to sleep? All fear for my mother was lost with that playful smirk trickling onto his face. I wanted to ask him a thousand questions, but my hands did most of the speaking as they started to slam the door in his face.

"Now, now! Control yourself!" Thomas shot his arm out, stopping the door in its tracks. He managed to squeeze his body through the small crack, despite my efforts to keep the rat at bay. "Renadale, are you really going to turn me away?"

"Yes!" I cried; my mind was not in the right place. Both of my hands were pinned on the opposite side of the door, pushing with all the strength I could muster up. Which, understandably, was very little at two in the morning.

"Good God," Thomas swore, still trying to fit his way inside. The strain in his voice displayed that he was stuck. "If you press any harder, you're going to collapse one of my lungs-"

The idea was somehow pleasing. "If you press me any longer, don't think I won't use one of my daggers!"

Thomas stopped the fuss for a moment, his vibrant eyes crawling all over my face with tainted innocence. "I thought we had left on good terms that last time we met. Sweet girl, do you really expect me to believe that you'd _stab_ me?"

"You stabbed my heart many years ago," I grumbled. "Who says I couldn't do the same?" Somehow I had forgotten about the third case with Sherlock Holmes; the unfinished case that I so often pushed from my mind. It was true; Thomas and I had left on good terms, but it seemed that his sudden appearance was enough to light the flame once more. "Just tell me this," I said huskily. "Why have you come so late in the night?"

Thomas's face finally fell with defeat. "Truth be told, I had planned on coming earlier. The timing of the trains seemed to ruin my plans, as well as… the closing of the tavern..." I snorted in disgust, getting ready to slam the door even harder against him. "Now wait! I travelled far to reach you and a beer… or four… were cause for celebration."

"You're still drunk," I muttered in disgust.

"Intoxicated," he defended. "Not _entirely_ the same thing."

"You're not answering my question."

Thomas's head fell lazily to his shoulder. He gave me that familiar smile that had once set shivers of desire up my spine. Now it did nothing more than infuriate me. "Are we always going to be playing these little games?" I kept my lips sealed. He should have known the answer to that. "I do not come to taunt you. I come as a friend. I promise."

"A friend?" My eyes narrowed into slits. "Friends don't wake their friends up with only five hours of sleep under their belt." I was certain that the dark circles beneath my eyes made me look monstrous. "Now, tell me what you've come for and I'll _think_ about letting you in."

Thomas's face tightened. A confession was going to fall from his lips; I had seen that expression before. Only, this time was different. He looked pained by his upcoming words, and I thought for a moment that he might actually leave my doorstep. However, whatever argument he faced in his own mind decided against it. And so, the words that Thomas Smith finally confessed were words that undoubtedly change my mind.

"I was sent here by the request of a Mister Sherlock Holmes."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

If Sherlock had been jealous of Thomas Smith once before, it had not been entirely obvious. I believe that my own distaste for the American outweighed that of the detective's, but upon finally sitting Thomas down in my parlor and offering him a cup of tea, I found myself becoming more cordial. Thomas _had _taken care of me once. Of course, he had broke my heart, but what man hadn't so far?

_Every_ man in my life had broken my heart at some point.

My father and Edward for dying, though that was not intentional.

Thomas for making promises that he could not keep.

John Watson for the countless times he threatened to abandon our cases.

And Sherlock Holmes. I could not be heartbroken on his accord for dying. He saved us all with that decision, but there were other times when I felt torn inside. Heartbroken? Perhaps, but mainly because I had tattered the stable seams of our relationship. I ripped the hems to shreds; I destroyed the silk of our affections. On more than one occasion I had considered leaving him. Other times I truly believed it was Irene who should be by his side. No doubt this damaged our relationship to some degree, and though I knew I shouldn't, I could not help but blame myself for his death.

"Renadale, this is marvelous." Thomas rose his cup of boiling black tea into the air. My mind managed to focus on reality, if only for a while. Did Thomas know he was toasting to a woman who was no more than a ghost? I nodded my gratitude without any words spoken. Thomas could see the curiosity and disease in my nature as I struggled to sit down. "You're pacing, Renadale."

"One is allowed to pace if she so chooses." My feet wobbled even as I walked. After minutes of trying to stop the shivers, I slumped down in a chair across from him, my body shaking with the desire to get up again. "Perhaps I should go and make myself a cup-"

"Renadale, please let me explain myself before you put more caffeine in your body." Thomas spoke quickly, his voice low. "I did not mention Sherlock Holmes to frighten you. There is no bad blood between any of us." My throat pulled up a silent whimper at the mention of his name. "I was not jesting. Sherlock Holmes asked me personally to come here."

My eyes flickered up from behind my curls. There was so much sleep dying to trap me, but thoughts of Sherlock Holmes had always kept me awake in the night and would continue to do so even after his death. "I don't know what game you are playing, but I have officially given up. Games create torment and rivalries lead to death. Sherlock Holmes is…" Dead? Gone? Deceased? None of the words seemed quite as fitting as my tears did.

"Renadale, I know he has passed." Thomas's hand moved to rest itself upon my knee. I only stared at it, not minding the warm flesh that surprisingly managed to comfort me. "You do not need to tell me these things, and I do not mean to torment you. In fact, it is I who have misbehaved. I should have come to you sooner. However, I did not know exactly where you were." A corner of his mouth struggled to pull up into a smile. "He asked me to protect you."

"Protect… Protect me?" My body pulled back in shock, his hand falling from its place on my knee. "When did he ask you such a thing? And who said that I needed protecting?"

"To answer your first of many questions, _yes_, I am here to look after you. To make sure that you are comfortable, well off, and suited to your surroundings. He asked me this before I heard of his death. He sent me a post, requesting that if anything were to happen to him, that I be at complete service to you." Thomas's eyes darted away, a rare gesture that took me by surprise. "He knew I would not refuse."

"I thank you for that," I said quietly. I had managed to move on after Thomas's leaving, but it seemed the cheeky American had not. He had vowed that he would always love me best, no matter what woman came in my footsteps. It was a strange trait that I did not understand, but he was indeed a sweet man despite his indecisive nature. I hoped he would be able to release me some day, and find someone more properly suited to him.

"At any rate," Thomas continued without knowing of my gratitude for him. "I do not know why you need protecting. He seems to think that there will be struggles for you in the future, as there naturally are, and with Doctor Watson gone, you will have little company to care for you."

"I have never needed company. I have always done well on my own."

"Yes, but that's not entirely true now, is it?" Thomas's thick brow rose in amusement. The candlelight flickering up from the table shadowed his face like a mysterious renegade or rouge. Something about the late hours on the clock and the handsome foreigner sitting across from me made me feel as if I were still dreaming. "You, Renadale, have _managed_ to be alone. You have never been as happy on your own than with someone else. Even me." His eyes shyly met mine. "Is it wrong to say that you were once happy with me?"

_No, _I thought to myself. _Of course it wasn't wrong. I was so happy with you. Thoughts of you woke me up in the mornings and gave me sweet dreams in the night._

"Yes," I lied. "Perhaps it is."

Thomas shrunk back with disappointment. He seemed flustered by my denial of our affections, but with a firm cough, he managed to tear his thoughts away from the misery. Pain was etched onto his face, but I could not deny that it somehow felt satisfying. He was my first love and he had left me. He was getting a dosage of his own cruelty.

I watched in silence as Thomas reached for his trunk. He clicked open the clasps unsteadily, not explaining his actions. As I waited in the uncomfortable silence, my thought was snapped back to reality as a large pile of papers were brought down upon my wooden tea table.

"These are for you," Thomas said gently. "I collected them all after our last meeting. Do you remember the book I gave you about the Illuminati?"

I nodded gently. I had left it in London, but it was moved with me to Titchfield. I hadn't so much as dusted the cover, let alone read the notes again. "It is here with me. Your ink has finally dried on the pages."

Thomas smiled and gestured towards the rest of the paper on the table. "I thought these might be useful."

I reached out for the faded newspaper. The headline startled me into a distant memory; a murder with symbols. Symbols described exactly like the ones in France. My eyes darted towards the main photo in the article, hoping it would give me some clue as to why Thomas had done this. There was a woman crying; a widow at that point. Her hair was tied up tightly atop her head as a policeman escorted her away from her flat in York. It was a daunting picture. You could almost feel the dead soul of her husband looking out from one of the windows. Above the door, discreetly, there were carved markings.

And above that, there was a caduceus.

"Where…" I struggled with lack of sleep and utter shock. "How did you find this?"

"It took a lot of time, but I gathered all of the information I could. You were so upset when your case wasn't finished. Now that Moriarty is out of the way, I thought you might want to settle your mind. There have been no more killings like the ones you saw in Paris, but perhaps finishing what you started…" Thomas's shoulders rose with doubt. "I am not saying that you should do this. I merely gathered the information for you in case you might want to put your mind at ease."

I _did _want to put that case to rest. Desperately. There was just one thing continuously tugging at my mind… "I have never done a case without him. How am I going to manage?"

Thomas, thankfully, understood my fear. Sherlock Holmes was the world's best detective. I was nothing more than a companion. My place was to give encouragement and offer any advice that I could. Which, not surprisingly, was rare.

"I tried to reach John Watson, but could not get ahold of him. His wife had written me a brief note after my own letter was sent out, but it was sloppily written and strangely unsettling." Thomas's eyes stared behind me, as if lost in thought. "It seemed very odd, Renadale." I did not want to hear what he said next. "I fear for them, though I cannot place my finger on why."

"Do you think they're safe?" I sat up further in my chair. "I have not seen John for many months. In fact, his letters come less as the days pass. They are short and invaluable." Part of me had not realized the strangeness of it all until Thomas had mentioned it. "Something isn't right."

"I think they may be keeping a secret," Thomas mumbled. "If they were being threatened, they would have left the country. Moved. However, they are merely nervous and anxious." His fingers trailed over his lips as he let his mind wander.

I set the paper firmly back onto the pile, clasping my hands together with excitement. Thomas's eyes suddenly sparkled with curiosity, wondering where my headstrong demeanor had come from. "Stay with me tonight." My voice was firm and unwavering. Thomas's eyes grew as wide as my fist, shock stopping his words from coming out. "We must both get some rest before we take action."

He leaned forward in his chair with misunderstanding. "I'm sorry, perhaps I've missed something. What exactly are you planning on doing?" My fingers drummed along the edge of my armrest. And though it was late and I was weary of unexpected guests, a smile could not stop from creeping onto my face.

"Why, Thomas, haven't you guessed? We're going to visit John Watson."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

**Review? **

**Purty purty please?**


	3. Undocumented Truth

**It is so wonderful to hear from all of you! This story is already moving quite quickly I suppose, and so are your reviews! It is sehr wunderbar, don't you agree?**

**At any rate, I have no announcements, and therefore we will continue on with the show! Thanks again for your comments and I hope you enjoy the next chapter!**

… **The game is afoot!**

**~Mistro**

**~.~.~.~.~.~**

The day cameras began to sell in London was a day the people would never forget. For once, people were given to choice whether to save their memories forever, or let them slip between their fingers like worthless trinkets. Cameras were not cheap, but with time they became more common. Sketches were outdated. The newspapers wanted expressive eyes and mouths open in shock without any previous planning. They wanted up-close wrinkles and the smooth curve of a model's smile.

But with cameras came the entire truth. The world started growing vividly horrifying. Photographs of wars and crimes were made public. People could witness with their bare eye the actual horrors of Afghanistan and other places ridden with war. People knew exactly what the villains looked like and could fear them even more. They looked like their friends, their neighbors. The artists weren't there anymore to make then seem more sinister.

My mind was fascinated, but I was an inventor. I was supposed to be drawn to the camera. How did the technology work? How could a single puff of smoke from a metal pole freeze a moment before you even had time to process it?

After Thomas had washed up and gone to sleep on the downstairs sofa, I tried to follow his lead. But it was the photographs of the symbols in the articles kept me as the moon's company. They were horrifying. Perhaps not to a common man, but knowing that Moriarty was behind it all made it more frightening.

They were houses with symbols above them. The works of Moriarty and his chain of corruptions and lies. What I found strange was the articles written about the victims' funerals all displayed photographs of their graves. Each grave bore a caduceus… a symbol of ironic definition. On one hand, it was the symbol of medical men and doctors. Saving lives. On the other it was a historic symbol of corruption: commerce, deception and and death.

I pulled my blanket further towards my chest, protecting my already cold flesh from the breeze of the open window. The newspapers and books were spread out all across my sheets, mocking me with failure. This was a case Sherlock Holmes had never finished, and one that I had always wanted to. Thomas showing up at my door was starting to seem convenient, as if it were my destiny to complete one last case.

One.

More.

Case.

Then I was done. Forever. I would find a real job; perhaps an actual maid in a fancy house with a great Lord and Lady. I could style their hair every morning into a perfectly lovely mess, and dust their floors by sweeping the fuzz under the sofa. Of course! Why wouldn't I get hired?

My eyes heavily glanced towards the clock, unsurprised to see that it was nearing six in the morning. I was often awake at that time, since sleep was hardly easy coming. And yet, Thomas and I had planned to catch the train in the morning and at least an hour of sleep would be required.

Begrudgingly, I tossed the paper from the bed and sunk further beneath the covers. Solitude found me for a few moments as the feathers in my pillow hugged my head into a gentle embrace. I tried not to think about actual dreams, and when finally gave up, sleep made her way into my soul.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

"Renadale!"

_Go away… _I slammed the pillow over my head. The last thing I wanted to wake up to was a rambunctious, obnoxious and overwhelming American.

"Renadale… I've made scones!"

The smell became familiar to my nose as the knowledge made itself known. The British afternoon tea snack was as tempting and delicious as they came. However, it was the first time I had actually managed to sleep decently in weeks and I was not going to pass up the opportunity.

"They've got sultanas in them…"

_Damn him. _Sultanas were my favorite.

I trotted down the stairs still in my nightgown. Thomas seeing me in such a state mattered less to me than missing out on warm scones. He stood over the washbin in the kitchen, hardly taking note of my appearance. I certainly took note of his.

I bit my lip, about to say something about his flesh. He couldn't walk around my house in such a state! Thomas was completely topless; the muscles of his shoulders and back popping out like I had once imagined. What if someone passed by and saw him through the window? The mystery of Titchfield would have been solved: the Renadale girl was a slut.

"Thomas," I said with a hesitant laugh. "Shouldn't you be wearing a shirt?"

Thomas leaned over his shoulder with a smirk. The strap of his suspenders slipped from his shoulders, displaying every patch of skin on his torso. He was about to respond with something cheeky no doubt, but when he caught sight of my own appearance he couldn't help but replace his words with laughter. "Me? Your nightgown is unbuttoned and I can see your chemise, Renadale. You might want to take your own advice now and again." He paused, looking me over one more time. "Not that I'm complaining."

"Let's just forget this ever happened." I sat down heavily at the table. "I came here for scones and only scones."

"Not even a bit of conversation?" Thomas set the plate before me, the steam rising off of the bread like tangible desire.

"Unless it has to do with the case," I grumbled, shoving half a roll in my mouth. "Because that was all that managed to consume my mind this morning."

"I presume that when you say 'this morning' you mean after I went to bed?"

"Pwecislye."

Thomas cocked his head, amused by my attempt to speak. My mouth was filled with the baked goods, and I sighed dreamily as it melted in my mouth. All of my worries were momentarily forgotten. Thomas placed his fists beneath his chin and stared intently at me. "You really ought to sleep. I hate to say it darling, but you look a bit… worn down."

"I am worn down. The love of my life is dead. How would you expect me to feel?"

Thomas paused for a moment, looking neither upset nor offended. It took me a moment to actually make eye contact with him, as tears were threateningly to fall and I had to let them subside. "I expect you to be brave. Sherlock died for you. He died for all of us. He hoped that getting rid of Moriarty would diminish the pace to a world war. He may very well have saved his own neck." I broke the eye contact, upset that Thomas may have been right. "He would have wanted you to fight back."

"So you're saying that I should just forget him? I should let his memory disappear with his body?"

"Never!" Thomas brought his brows together in frustration. "He was a hero! Even I knew that, and I'm blind to most important things. His memory should continue to live within you, because you were Sherlock Holmes's everything. If he died for you, in the name of humanity. He would want you to fight for the world as well."

"He may have actually wanted me to sit at home all day and be safe. He_ did _tell me to get out of London."

"You wouldn't have managed in London." Thomas looked at me pathetically, and rightfully so. I was not something to be admired. I was a broken and shattered little woman. "His memory would have suffocated you. He was right; it was time for a fresh start."

My head fell as my eyes came directly in line with the scones. Somehow they had become sickly to me in a matter of minutes. Food in general lost its appeal when I tried to think about Sherlock Holmes. "I know you are right. It's just admitting it that is the hard part."

Thomas outstretched his hand towards mine. His skin somehow seemed softer to the touch, and without pause, I held it back. "You don't need to admit anything to me."

We sat like that for some time. Our hands were like a silent portal to the other's soul. I could read Thomas's loneliness as his thumb began to stroke my knuckles. He could read the sadness in mine as I did not reciprocate the action. When I finally did speak, I tried my hardest to stray from anything having to do with Sherlock Holmes.

"I found something interesting last night in the papers."

"Do tell." Thomas smirked, withdrawing his hand. Even he was suddenly back to normal. I enjoyed seeing him so excited about the case. It had been a long time since I had seen Thomas truly excited about anything.

"A boy… He was very young. He died shortly after the symbols stopped appearing. I remember reading about it ages ago, before we were even started on the Moriarty case. It was only just last night that I managed to see a picture of his grave."

"His grave?" Thomas leaned back with surprise. "What was so peculiar about his grave?"

"A caduceus," I smirked. "Again. The symbol is everywhere. It's on _all _of the victims' graves, and even above some of their doorsteps."

"But this boy… Was he-"

"A victim?" I shook my head. "No. Not that I know of. I don't know how he's connected, but the signs seem to say that he is. He wasn't anyone of importance. Surely he can't be the head of a mass killing organization, but… he could have been a pawn. A chess piece."

"A caduceus. Are you certain?"

I nodded slowly. "Do you know something about it?"

"Well, I'm not sure this is really important…"

"Everything is important," I encouraged. "Everything matters when you're dealing with serial killings."

"It's just that… Well, with my research, I often study graves. Recently I visited the London Cemetery, and noticed something myself." He leaned forward, his voice becoming a whisper. "Renadale, do you remember the case of Lord Blackwood?"

Blackwood. The case that mystified the world. If anyone hadn't heard about Blackwood, they were surely living under a rock. Lord Blackwood was the case that not only made Sherlock Holmes known around Great Britain, but the entire globe. He was a superstar. He was a hero. And they were the last two things he wanted to be.

"Of course I know Blackwood. How could anyone forget such an evil man?" Though I was not interested in politics, Lord Blackwood had tried to murder nearly all of Parliament. I never managed to understand how he believed he would actually succeed. Bad men never truly win, do they? It was a question that always made me wonder. I had lost Sherlock Holmes to Moriarty. I didn't exactly call that 'winning'. "He was a magician. Nothing more."

"A magician whose grave bears an all too familiar symbol."

"Surely you don't mean…?"

Thomas nodded his head slowly, making sure that I read the meaning behind his gesture with complete accuracy. Lord Blackwood's grave bore the seal of the caduceus. Thomas and I tried to read what the other was thinking as our mouths became too dry to speak.

My hands shakily pushed the plate of scones away, my appetite suddenly vanished. "He couldn't have possibly been involved."

"Why not?" Thomas leaned forward anxiously. His curled, dark hair sprung up like the twinkle in his eye. "What if everything is connected? What if every case Sherlock Holmes has solved leads into the other?"

I shook my head at the thought of the notion. I was not exactly fond of it. If every case led into the other, that meant that the game would never be won. "Thomas, how could that possible be true? Lord Blackwood was in it for revenge. He killed his own father. Moriarty wanted a war."

"What are the odds of his grave-not-grave, seeing as he didn't die the first time, having a symbol like that on it? Lord Blackwood was a high-ranking man. His father had his nose in many door cracks, one of them being weapons and communications." My mouth must have been hung open in disbelief as Thomas gently pushed my dangling jaw back up. "I did my research."

"You've done all of this while I was away?"

"While you were away…" Thomas let his head fall to his shoulder. "So you planned on coming back to me?" My foot went flying out beneath me under the table, sending a perfectly executed kick to the American's shin. "Alright, alright! Yes, I have managed to do nothing else. Believe it or not, but the world isn't exactly looking for archeologists at the moment and I find myself having nothing better to do."

"I'm thrilled to see your enthusiasm. And now you're stuck with me."

Thomas's lips curled up into a grin, the drowsiness dispersing in substitution for playfulness. "I don't think that is a major issue."

"Thomas, I swear to God-"

He raised his hands defensively. "No need to get worked up, darling. I've always been an honest man. You know that."

Oh, I knew it. Years ago, he bluntly informed me that marriage was not going to happen. He had executed perfectly that we were not meant to be together at that particular point in time. Thomas had been brutally honest, and I didn't tend to find it as redeeming of a quality as he had.

I rolled my eyes, not wishing to express all of the thoughts running through my head. I stood from the table, ready to drop the nonsense and begin the case as Sherlock would. "Come on. Go and wash up. The train outside of London leaves in an hour." My hand snatched one last scone, gifting Thomas with an easy grin. "We'd best be ready for it."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

John Watson was a tired man. His body was tired, his mind was tired, and even his friends were tired. He hadn't left his newly purchased countryside house except for a few mandatory dinners with Mary's contacts and doctoral duties. Any chance he could stay indoors, he took it.

The death of Sherlock Holmes rattled him harder than he expected. At the beginning of the case, Sherlock's loyalty to Moriarty's end had seemed unusual and altogether obsessive. Towards the end, John understood why. Sherlock Holmes was going to die for the world. It was a major sacrifice, and getting himself thrilled about it made death much easier. John, however, wasn't as thrilled.

He took the blame for everything that had happened, but no one knew how horribly he managed to accuse himself. Every night was racked with endless hours of sleep. Images flashed through his minds like nightmares, but horribly they were the truth. The closing of Sherlock's eyes. The disappearance of his body.

Sherlock Holmes had been his best friend. He still was. And John hadn't managed to save him.

John knew he was not the only one suffering. He knew that he should have visited Renadale; she was suffering just as badly as he was. Perhaps even more. And yet he couldn't find the proper time to meet her. If he told her what he knew…

Or didn't know.

What _did _he know?

All he knew was that a package had come for him while he was still in London. It was wooden, small, and inside was the same inhaling device that Sherlock Holmes had inspected at his brother's cottage months ago. What did that mean? Was Mycroft trying to be funny? Did he think the inhaler was some sort of token of Sherlock's memory?

Well, it wasn't. And it certainly wasn't funny if that was what he was trying to convey.

There had been another theory, however… One that John Watson had played with obsessively until he thought his mind may rupture.

The idea was that Sherlock Holmes had delivered it himself. He stole it that night in Switzerland before the ball, and when he fell to his rocky and watery grave, the strange contraption was used to regain his breath.

John saw the idea as absurd. If that was the case, then how did he manage the rocks? Surely the drop was steep enough to knock the wind out of him and cause him to fall unconscious. It was when those thoughts started coming through that Watson began to feel sick, and forget any thoughts about the inhaler at all.

John wasn't sure of what had happened, but he knew one thing was for certain. Renadale should have known. There was fear inside of him to tell her. If Sherlock was not alive, then it would break her heart all over again. He didn't want to give her false hope. When he tried to explain what had happened in the letters, he failed, and eventually stopped writing altogether.

He had been a horrible friend and he knew that. All he wanted was to see her face again, to tell her that even he could not part from the things that had passed.

They were doomed to live with Sherlock's ghost for the rest of their lives.

John let his head fall heavily onto his desk. It was a late August morning and he was home alone. Mary had friends to see and a life to live. John was as pleased as could be in her presence, but when left alone, his thoughts tormented him into a kind of foreboding silence.

He stood up carefully, making sure not to fall over from lack of sleep. His medical books were spread open around the room, begging for eyes to scan them. John was not interested. All that interested him was closing them to stop his guilt from overflowing. He walked over towards his open window, where the breeze felt gentle against his droopy face. Somehow it was as much comfort as he could get.

"Renadale…" He mumbled, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. "I am so sorry for what I have not told you." Speaking the words aloud would help him to cope more than bottling them in. "I have been such a horrible friend to you."

John let his hands fall from his face as his eyes scanned the small town below him. Temporarily, it would be a good distraction. Mary and John had moved away from London, but not too far, in order to start a more proper family life together. John admired the small town, but missed the smoke and thrill of the bigger cities. He didn't have the heart to tell his wife that, and therefore found redeeming qualities in the town as best as he could.

As he stared out the window frame, he noted the grocer preparing his stall for the late market. His green vegetables were hearty and refreshing, just as his own personality. When John truly thought about it, he couldn't remember the last time he had actually been excited to eat delicious food. A year ago, perhaps…

The dressmaker's shop was busy as usual. Women flocked from outside of the city in order to find unique dresses; ones they were sure the uppity woman of London would never find in the city borders. Unique was where fashion was headed in those days, but everyone strived to be different that no one really was successful.

And just inside of the town square laid a picturesque fountain. A beautiful stallion rose up from the water, its front legs lifted into a sort of charge, but its back bare of a rider. John eyed it peculiarly as water trickled down onto the pale pavement.

A young woman sat on the bottom step, her eyes closed and her hair let loose. John smiled softly; she looked so calm. He missed feeling that way. Taking a step closer to look at her, his vision was cut short by another man catching her eye.

Down below, a tall gentleman in a casual suit made his way up to the girl. As a friend would, he handed her a small cake, joining her on the step below. They ate in silence, enjoying the solitude of the town square and the company of their own thoughts. John began to smile at their simplistic way of life, until his eyes ordered him to double check his surroundings.

The girl was not just any girl. The man was not just some onlooker who happened to take her fancy. It was Renadale Adkins and Thomas Smith, and he had been watching the like pigeons begging for crumbs.

Stifling the urge to shout down to them, John turned his back with a hand clamped tightly over his mouth. Out of all the days for her to come, that day was not the best. What on Earth were they doing there? Were they trying to find him?

He fumbled with his appearance though there was not much left to be done. Soon they were going to find out where he lived and sort out the mystery of his short and uninteresting letters.

And worse… they would discover the truth that even he had been hiding from himself.

~.~.~.~.~.~

**Oooo… what truth IS John hiding? Review and maybe I'll upload quicker… ;) I do have classes however, so I can't make any promises. XD**

**Please do review though! LOVE YOU x100000000!**


	4. Unfamiliar Faces, Unfamiliar Places

**Thanks for all of the fabulous reviews so far! I'm sorry this story is a bit slow to update. I hadn't intended it to be, but University handed me quite a bit of work this year. At any rate, please enjoy this chapter and leave reviews so I can know what you think!**

**All the best,**

**Mistro xxx**

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

I wasn't interested in small talk. John was entirely dear to me, but it was clear that something was happening in his life that he did not wish to explain. He would get down to the point, or all of the kickboxing skills Sherlock had taught me in Paris would suddenly be remembered.

Thomas and I waited in the town square, munching on cake and deciding our next move. "We could just knock on the door," Thomas grumbled. "That would be the easiest way of getting his attention."

"Of course we'll knock." I garbled through bits of spongecake. "It's just the act of getting him to talk that I fear will be an issue."

Thomas shrugged, not understanding the stress levels of our situation. "It will be fine. He's your closest friend. Why should he lie to you?"

"Because he already has been. It would be pointless for him to stop now. Once a liar begins, he finds his new home in the depths of his falsities. Without a way out."

Thomas stopped eating for a moment to think about my words. The splashes of water from the fountain behind us helped to keep me cool, but as each minute passed I became anxious. Thomas spoke up to distract my thoughts, "Let me do the talking."

I scoffed, unsurprised by Thomas's desire to control. "No, thank you."

"John would tell me the truth."

"He hardly knows you!"

"And therefore would find it more comfortable to spill his soul to a stranger."

"I think you've got it the wrong way around."

We both had nothing more to say. It was me who would do the talking and Thomas who would be there if my kickboxing skills weren't as spectacular as I had remembered. Putting of our hunger and finishing our cakes, we decided it was time to jump back into action. The afternoon was growing warmer, which meant that time was passing by. And every detective knows that time is valuable. "Alright," Thomas smirked. "It's time."

My nose scrunched in annoyance. "Don't speak like it's the end of your days, Thomas."

We made our way casually up to Watson's door. I reached my hand towards the Lion-faced knocker, but froze as my fingers brushed the cool metal. If I were to knock, John or Mary would certainly answer. Secrets would be spilled. Whatever was happening in John's head was not good, and I was going to be stepping into his world. John Watson was my friend, and therefore my knocking would lead to both of our fates.

"Breathe deeply," Thomas instructed in a whisper. "It will be alright." His words _were_ comforting to some extent, but when the door creaked open I found myself instantly fearing my decision.

Awaiting us was on the opposite side of the threshold was exactly the expression I had dreaded. John's tired face stared blankly ahead as if there was no recognition. There was a lack of life within his eyes, as well as his body, that expressed the unforgotten death of a friend. When he spoke, I hardly recognized his tone. "Come in, please." He opened the door a bit wider, making room for each of us at a time.

When we were all sealed within, I awaited John's instructions. The only thing he offered was a long stare filled with apprehension. "You are displeased that we have come," I answered for him. "I cannot begin to understand why."

"You should have sent warning," John muttered ungratefully.

"So you could ignore me even further?" My heart was suddenly letting loose its wounds. "Have I done something to offend you? Or is this a personal issue that you have decided to take out on me?" John gave no answer. "You haven't spoken to me properly in months. I understand that Sherlock Holmes is dead, but even I have managed to press on." This statement _did _stir something in Watson, as his eyes flickered up unconsciously towards my own. I carried on with talk of the deceased detective, as it seemed to be the only thing holding his interest. "If Sherlock were here, he would be appalled. He always saw you as a gentleman, and yet here you are, acting like a child."

Thomas's hand reached out to cup my shoulder. "Renadale, I think-"

I batted it away like a stubborn fly. "You think? You don't often partake in such an activity, Thomas."

Thomas winced in figurative pain. "That's rather harsh."

I focused my attention back on Watson. He was becoming more flustered with each word I spoke, as his own words struggled to squeeze themselves into my ranting. "Well? Do you have an excuse for yourself, John? Because I would very much like to hear it, considering I haven't properly heard anything out of you in weeks."

"He's not dead."

If any more threats dared to come out of my mouth, they were restrained for the time being. I could physically feel the blood draining from my face, but I did not know where it went as my entire body grew cold. "What?" My own voice slipped out of me without consciousness. "What did you say?"

John's eyelids flickered shut to try and block out my miserable expression. His confession made little sense, but if it implied what I thought it did… "I don't think Sherlock Holmes is dead."

Normally, I might have seen such a response as mockery. However, John Watson was not one to lie to me, and his excuse explained his behavior. He may have been acting strangely, but any man would if he found himself believing that men arose from the grave. Whatever he was telling me was believed on the opposite end, and I found myself choking up without consent. "But, that's not-"

"Impossible," Thomas bolted into the conversation. "How could that be? Sherlock Holmes fell from the side of a mountain, over a waterfall, and to God knows where below." He took a daring step towards the Doctor, his face red from confusion and anger. "Do you jest? If you are merely making Renadale upset-"

"Why would I?" John annoyingly grumbled back. "How was I supposed to tell her what I thought? How could anyone believe me? Even you dare to question my honor. I was Sherlock Holmes's closest friend, and yet you think I lie."

"You are not lying." Both of the gentlemen turned to face me. My voice was hardly raised above a whisper, but with the trembling of my heart, it was all I could manage. "I can see it in your face. You are telling me a truth that I have dreamt to hear every evening for the past six months."

John inched closer towards me. His hand instantly found itself in mine and it offered it a squeeze. "I couldn't lie to you. I didn't know how you would react. My messages were not delayed only because of the uncertainty of your opinion, but something else… I apologize for taking so long. You of all people deserve it least, and now that you are here I can fully remember that."

I stood up straighter, detecting minor fear in John's voice. The Doctor was hardly ever in terror, and seeing him in such a state warned me that there was more to the story. "I think we should sit down."

He nodded in response. "My thoughts exactly."

Thomas outstretched his arm, blocking us as we made our way to Watson's drawing room. Although I was entirely prepared to believe everything John said, Thomas was not as keen. "Now, wait just a moment. I'm trying to follow along, but you two look at each other and suddenly understand what they're trying to convey. You don't even need words. Unfortunately, I'm not part of your musketeer group and I struggle to follow."

John let my hand fall from his in order to rub his face. It was a gesture of discomfort. The words that would follow his actions were sure to be ones of great surprise.

"Sherlock Holmes might be alive, and I will get to that later. The reason my messages have been delayed is because…" He swallowed down a large breath of courage. "I think somebody is trying to kill me."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Marrakech was not all that it had been made out to be. A growing city near the center of Morocco, Marrakech was said to be an up-and-coming wonder. Sherlock Holmes did not view it in that way to begin with. There was dirt where there should have been stone, and there were rats where there should have been flowers. He wasn't one for perfection, and eventually the beauty of the city appeared to him on an early April morning. The sun was rising like a glaring red eye, watching over the small huts and spice stalls like some fiery God. Sherlock admired the way it rolled over the horizon, defeating nighttime and entering a world of livelihood.

It hadn't been long since European Christians could the gates of Marrakech, but even if Sherlock had been a religious man, his private invitation from the Sultan guaranteed him access. Sherlock had little inkling as to why he was requested a private audience, but if it meant he could stay out of Europe, he took it.

He was not hiding from John or Renadale. He was not running away, or at least, that was not his intention. He was just not quite ready to see them as other events were starting to unfold. It pained him to be so far from those he loved, but they lived in desperate times. And every man knows that desperate times called for … ignoring those you care about.

On the morning of his meeting with the Sultan, Sherlock awoke to a chill coming from his open balcony doors. Sitting up in his mediocre hotel bed, he peered around the corner to see what kind of sun was rising. It was a small one that promised no signs of an easy day.

With a groan of sleep deprivation, Sherlock let his body fall backwards onto the feathered sheets. They were warm and soft; comforting like a wife that was promised to be with you every night. A wife that he had never experienced. A wife that he potentially gave up that day he threw himself over the edge of a Swiss mountain.

Sherlock Holmes was a bright man, but on the fateful day of his 'death', he was not positive if he would live or die. Mycroft's inhaling device was a promising protector, and it had clearly done him some good. He never got to figure out if his brother had placed it purposefully, but he stole it and that was that. He arose from the water with minor aches and scratches… which was more than what could be said for Professor James Moriarty.

That gentleman was dead. As dead as newly stepped-on bug. As dead as a rose in the winter. He was not coming back, but that did not mean his legacy was over.

On the other hand, the Sultan's request for Sherlock Holmes did seem entirely suspicious. Morocco? Africa? It had been years since Sherlock had been to the continent, and even then he had spent most of his time on the Northern or Eastern parts. Marrakech was entirely new to him, and he wondered what significance he would have with its ruler.

"Mister Holmes?" An accented voice came out muffled from behind the door. The detective, still stuck in a daze of imagining Renadale beside him, did not bother to answer it. "Your carriage has arrived and will be leaving in twenty minutes, sir."

"Tell him not to wait," Sherlock shouted back. "I shall walk to the palace!"

There was a long pause of hesitating defiance. "But, Mister Holmes, sir-"

"I do insist!"

There was no more noise coming from the doorway. The boy had left Sherlock to his thoughts, which was exactly what he had desired. Sitting back up with a sharp mind, Sherlock thought about his plans for the rest of the day and tried to forget the girl who was always in his mind.

"Now," he whispered to himself with a smile. "Twenty minutes to get to the palace means fifteen minutes of actual walking." The carriage drivers in Marrakech took you the longest possible route, putting more change in their pockets and more dust in the eyes of their passengers. "If I make my way past the bazaar, towards the center of town, then it might very well be possible to run into where the rest of the British travellers may be hiding…"

Sherlock was already on a case before the Sultan even offered him one. If the Sultan wanted Sherlock's help, it had to do with something going on in England. That was where Sherlock concerned himself, and where anyone who needed his help was focused on. If it had to do with Marrakech and Britain, then there may have been something unusual going on in the British quarters of the African city.

Which, clearly, was the first stop on Sherlock's list.

He would have just enough time to search out the area before meeting the Sultan. All would be well. He would receive his case by mid-day, and hopefully find something else to preoccupy him in the moments he had free.

Thinking of Renadale Adkins would do. That was what he often did, even if there were more important matters at hand.

Swiftly putting on his trousers and jackets, Sherlock Holmes decided that he would be ready for the day. He would be ready for whatever came at him: serial killers, violent gangs, demonic doctors… whatever it was that the Sultan wanted taken care of, he would offer his help.

Sherlock scooped his new hat up from his dresser. It was as black as the crows that roomed the cemeteries of London, and slicker than the rain that fell on their tombstones. Flicking the fedora perfectly on his head, Sherlock could not help but utter one last practice session of his introduction for the Sultan.

"Good evening, your highness. My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people do not."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

My tea had already gone cold by the time I remembered it. John had been sipping his extensively to shake the shivers running through his body. I had been listening intently to his words, and continued to do so with long lost hope swimming through my veins. "When I was moving out of London, Mary handed me a package. It was a wooden box without a return address. I hadn't recalled ordering anything by catalog, and therefore hesitated to open it. When I finally slid off the top of it…" John shook his head. He was finding it just as hard to accept now as he had six months ago. I did not blame him now that I saw his struggle. He was confused, and rightly so. "It was the inhaler."

"The what?" Thomas snorted, finishing off his third cup of coffee.

"You wouldn't understand," John mumbled, unafraid to express his distaste for the man who still felt for me. "We saw it in Mycroft's cabin in Switzerland. There was a new invention he had that could fill your lungs with air, merely by squeezing the top and putting a nozzle into your mouth. Fantastic on a medical standpoint, really. At first, I thought Mycroft was playing some practical joke, but-"

"Sherlock was interested in it," I whispered. "When we were in the dining room, Sherlock couldn't seem to put it down. I hadn't paid much attention at the time, but maybe he _didn't _put it down. He could have stolen it."

"And if he did, he was the one who sent it back." John outstretched his hands. "Which means…"

I nodded. No one had to say what it meant. It was written in the air like invisible cement: unspoken but concrete. Sherlock Holmes was alive.

And though the news excited me, part of my soul felt betrayed. "If he is alive, why did he not come back for you or myself? If you are in danger like you said, certainly he would want to protect you."

Watson shrugged with minor irritation. "I haven't the slightest clue as to where he is. He may not know of my troubles. This was the only hint he offered me and even then, it made no sense as to where I could reach him. I requested a meeting with Mycroft, but he said he had no part in sending me that inhaler. He refused to meet me." John's eyes flickered up towards mine. "Both of the Holmes brothers seem to know something we don't."

I was trying my hardest to stay reasonable. Every part of me wanted to solve the riddle of Sherlock's resurrection, but deep within there was an urge to defy it. Sherlock Holmes died without warning, and therefore refused to come find me when he came back to life. My heart had been through enough pain, but somehow Sherlock had managed to find another part to stab. Sherlock Holmes would be the death of me, and not exactly in the 'till death do us part' context.

"When I was walking home the other night from a meeting, I was stopped in a nearby alleyway." John was unafraid to tell us the whole truth. Now that he had gotten most of his confessions off his chest, the rest came out like water from a tap. "There were two men, both of them in white-tie and with shaven faces. They didn't try to hide who they were." He bit his lip nervously as he recalled the meeting. "They gave me a slip of paper without saying anything. And then they left. Gone, like ghosts dispersing after a blink of your eyes."

"Did you ever find out who they were?" Thomas questioned.

John shook his head slowly. "I wasn't sure if I wanted to. I ripped up the letter they gave me after I read it. Foolishly."

"What did it say?" My hand reached out to fall upon his knee. His body was so weak and frail, I thought that he would fall off the chair at any moment. Sleep had not met him for weeks and it showed through the hollowing of his cheeks. He stared at my hand for a long while before finally taking it in his own.

"'Declare me dead or declare yourself.' That's all it said," he sighed heavily as the memory came flooding back into his brain. "I didn't know what it meant. I've been waiting for a month now for something to come up, but there's been nothing. Every night I sleep I fear I won't wake up. So, I don't sleep." His eyes darted towards the mantel of his fireplace, where a lovely photo of Mary on her wedding day rested. "It was difficult on me, but worse on Mary. She was preparing for a child and I had no energy to even eat, let alone care for a baby."

John's words pulled me into misery as swiftly as Charon came for death. For months I had been selfish, fearing that I would be alone without my friend's letters. There were days when I feared something bad had happened, but I had not acted on it and I feared it was too late. "John, there's only one thing we can do. If you want to feel safe again, we have to look into what you're suggesting."

"You mean…" John glanced around the floor in search of the right words. "We need to find Sherlock Holmes."

I inhaled a large breath. "If Sherlock Holmes is still alive, then we have to find him."

Thomas snickered from his chair, unaffected by all of the news we had been receiving. "And fast."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

While Thomas had gone back into town to get groceries for our dinner, Watson and I finally found ourselves alone. At first I feared it would be different than before. He would be colder, less interactive, and certainly less jovial. However, I was pleasantly surprised when he joined me in the kitchen to wash up. He was wearing a minor smile on his face and the wrinkles on his forehead had all but dispersed.

"You don't need to do the washing." He playfully shoved me away from the wash basin, while simultaneously snatching up our teacups.

"I don't mind," I offered. He scrubbed away at them with his thoughts as his company. As he washed and dried, he continued to smile as much as a man in his position could. "John…" I was fearful of bringing down his mood, but for my own sake, it was vital. "I was wondering if I could see it."

John placed the last China cup in the cupboard and paused with his hand on the cabinet door. His eyes stared foreword at the wall ahead of him, weighing the risk of telling Sherlock's lover that he was still alive. "Follow me," he finally said and much to my relief.

We silently made our way up the stairs; stairs which held paintings of London and photographs of family members. Towards the very top, just as you stood on the landing, Sherlock's covered face from the Blackwell case stared back at me from a news article. I smiled shyly, as if he were hiding from me. I would have given anything to actually see a photograph with his eyes properly looking back at mine.

On the outside I seemed to be taking the news of Sherlock's possible return from the grave quite well. On the inside, I was glowering. Furious. Heartbroken. Distraught. Sherlock Holmes had written me a letter, _knowing _that it was his untimely end, and yet had somehow survived it? I was grateful he did, but what of the promises he made me? The desire to marry me, for example. He clearly did not want it as much as he had expressed, or else he would have shown his alive-and-well face already.

"In here," John called from a room down the corridor. I was so distracted with my thoughts that I had not seen him slip away from me. I rushed to catch up, unsurprised to see all of his familiar belongings from London set up around his office. "Here it is." He spoke as he slid a wooden container out from underneath his desk. With steady hands, John pulled back the lid, suggesting he had done this many times since its delivery.

I peered over the edge, my hands gripping the large, oak desk for stability. When I met the item with my vision, all of my misery seemed for naught. There it was, the inhaler, staring up at me like some sort of ill played joke. It looked as it once had, except for a few dents and wears along the edges.

"It looks like someone has used it…" I whispered to myself.

John overheard my personal conversation and nodded in agreement.

We were both as troubled as children gone without dessert, but neither of us could find the will to complain. John was sure to be just as upset as I was, and if we ever did find Holmes, the detective had better prepare himself for a verbal whipping. "I can't find it within me to understand…"

"Understand why he did it?" John questioned. "I've been thinking the same thing for months. If Sherlock is alive, he must be working on a case. Otherwise, I can't think of why someone would want to kill me without him in the picture."

"The note," I mumbled. "You said you could picture the men who gave it to you. Have you not bothered to find out who they were?"

"I wouldn't know where to start," John chuckled. "Without Sherlock Holmes, I fear I'm lost on the matter of case studies."

The idea of tracking someone down was certainly familiar of our wild goose chases in the past. Searching for clues, looking for riddles… it all seemed like a childhood game, but for us it was our lives. _Was_ our lives, because Sherlock was the only one who was any good at it.

Drumming my fingers against my lips, I tried to think of a possible way to solve the issue. John could not merely go about describing the duo across London; there were far too many people. It was clear that these men were part of some society, a wealthy one most likely, and kept their company in high places. Fine dining, fine suits, fine women…

"Suits!" I shouted suddenly, bringing my fist down upon the table. "You said that their suits were disproportionately nice."

John nodded as if my comment held little importance. "If I recall correctly, yes."

"How many fine suit shops are there in London? Ten? Nine?" I spoke slowly to try and get my point across to John. If he could remember a bit more about the men, we may have been onto something. "If you believed them to be new, all we have to do is go through the shop records a couple months back. It might sound absurd, but we would be one step closer to tracking your killer." John sent me a glare as I spoke the word. "My apologies, your _mailer_."

"You have a point," John sighed. "I do believe their suits were new. They wore the modern suits of the upcoming millennium. I wouldn't think many shops held such elegant white-tie pieces, but…"

"But?"

John paused and let the idea roll around his head. For a split second, I knew that I saw my familiar partner, but his appearance did not last long before another reality clasped him prisoner. "I can't go to London. I couldn't leave Mary on her own again, not when we're trying to start a family."

"If you don't do this, you will be in this despondent state forever." My hands reached out towards his shoulders. "John Watson, I hardly recognized you when I walked through that door. Even your curtains look like they're been bought by a horrid mother-in-law." He turned slowly to look at his purple silk fabrics. "You haven't been living your reality. Your mind is somewhere else, and I fear that is with this note and with Sherlock Holmes."

"What about you?" He asked softly. "Where has your mind been?"

He knew very well that my mind had been in the same place as his. However, I was trying to act upon my desires rather then ignore them blatantly. "We share thoughts, Watson. However, Thomas and I have been doing some research on the previous symbol case, and I fear it connects to so much more than we once believed."

John offered me his full attention. "So much more?"

"Blackwood," I muttered. "I think that was the beginning of a mess that we still find ourselves in. Henry, the chap with the newspapers, Jacob Irons, Moriarty, the symbols… Somehow I fear they are all the frame of a larger picture."

John didn't take a minute to express his distaste for the idea. "How in God's name could that be? There were hardly similarities between any of them-"

"There are if you look in the right places."

"How can something that happened so many years ago be relevant now?" John chuckled darkly. He had never been entirely interested in being on the cases, and now that I was telling him he had never actually finished one… well, that was perhaps the last straw for the poor doctor. "It's all a game, isn't it Renadale? One thing leads to another until its finished… Except mankind has been playing these games since Eve bit into the apple."

I managed a slight smile. "Thankfully I wasn't there for that."

John leaned up against the windowsill, his eyelids flickering shut from the lowering of the sun. "I'm tired, Renadale. I'm not who I used to be, or who I wanted to be. Mary is here now. That's all I can afford to think about."

I understood where John was coming from. However, my lover was gone. He still might have been deceased, or he could have been just down the road for all I knew. I knew nothing of his whereabouts other than that he _might _be out in the world. For me, that was all I could afford to think about, and nothing would stop me from finding him.

"I'm going to go and find Thomas. We will stay at an inn just down the road, and if you would like to come and visit us you may." John made no note to answer me. His back did not bother to turn and his eyes continued to stare through the glass. "If Mary comes home early from her trip this evening, then we would love to meet with the pair of you. I promise to act normal."

I watched for a few minutes in case John was developing a highly thought-out speech. My waiting was insignificant, as he remained just as quiet as he had since opening his front door. Turning my back to him, I found that we were both suddenly walking our own paths. We would choose what to do next in our life without care for the other, unlike our close bond before.

We were our own people now.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

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	5. Breaking Promises

**Sorry to keep you all waiting! I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

**I apologize for the late update as I have been auditioning for shows and writing some pretty important essays. Please let me know what you think of this chapter with a review- short or long, I don't mind! **

**PLEASE REVIEW- I'LL LOVE YOU FOREVER. **

**Yours truly,**

**Mistro**

**~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~**

Sherlock Holmes often dreamed of Renadale Adkins. He would picture her walking down a pathway as the autumn leaves sprinkled off the trees. The gentle London wind would twist them around her body, like a golden halo honoring her entire being. It was a crown from Mother Nature, to express the beauty that Renadale could not find within herself.

He did only have such visions as he slumbered, but during the time of day as well. As Sherlock Holmes made his way down the blustery streets of Marrakech, he could not help to imagine the presence of her at his side. Her arm, thin but strong, would wrap around his. The warmth of her skin would trickle through her coat, weaving itself with the heat of his own flesh. However, when he looked down to kiss her forehead, she was not there. She was a ghost that lived miles away from his heart, entirely unsuspicious of the fact that he was alive.

At least, he hoped that she believed it to be such.

If she didn't, she was going to get herself killed.

Sherlock pushed the vile thought from his mind as he came across the foreign district. It was not a long walk to the palace from there, and Sherlock knew he had a minute to spare. Up ahead, the wooden door of a local inn stood open. He lazily drug his feet across the square, looking distracted by the scenery, but tuning his ears to the conversation inside.

"Well, he certainly didn't have the credibility that one suspected…"

"He's a doctor, not a Prince. He shouldn't be ridiculed so harshly."

"Yes, well, it was his mistake. And now we've been ordered to fix it."

Sherlock bit down on his bottom lip, itching to get a better sense of the conversation. If he bothered taking a drink and sitting down nearby, he would miss his meeting with the Sultan. Which was, undoubtedly, a terrible idea.

"You have been ordered to do nothing. None of us have. We wait."

"Have we not been doing that long enough?"

"I really don't see all the fuss. Blackwood was a fool, Moriarty was unlucky. Time will move on and new men will present themselves. Why make dark marks on a past that is already stained?"

Sherlock's interest was clearly at its peak. He flicked his silver pocket-watch from his waistcoat, fearing the response he would get. Naturally, he now only had ten minutes to reach the palace, and would need every second of it. Just as he began to head down a quiet alley to relocate his proper route, a final whisper flooded into his ear.

"The death of John Watson will be payment for us all."

~.~.~.~.~.~

My tired feet, rubbing against the bottom of my shoes, carried me to the bakery where Thomas was waiting. He held up a basket of colorful groceries, pleased with his supply. "I believe I have everything we need." He tilted the top so I could get a better view, but food was the last thought on my mind. "Do not fret; I managed to avoid the olives, as I know you find them repulsive."

My groan allowed Thomas to drop his cheerful manner for a minute in order to let me speak. "We won't be eating with them any longer. John has made up his mind. He wants no part in this… whatever _this _is. I said where we would be tonight, so if he changed his mind, he could find us."

Thomas glumly looked down at his collection of food. Gathering food was a chance for Thomas to seem worthwhile, and now he was not needed. "I suppose you and I could have a rousing feast." He poked at the dead chicken lying on top. "A few extra pounds might slow us down, but for chicken I'm willing to sacrifice my dashing handsome looks."

I couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm. "I am taking that as the fact that you will be staying on the case."

"Of course, Renadale," Thomas sighed heavily. "Unless you're planning to toss me from you any time soon, I won't be leaving." He gently guided me in the direction of our inn, being careful not to push in my delicate state. "If you haven't noticed, I've become something of a mess without you."

I could have ridiculed him. I could have reminded him that my heart was entirely separate from his, but I did not want to. Thomas had suffered as I had, albeit not on quite the extreme scale. His skin was loose and his eyes were tired, and though it felt wrong, I wanted to make him better again. For the time being my smile was all I could offer, and he made no mention of our past for the rest of the evening.

We finally approached the inn a few blocks down the street. It was a cozy looking place, with Tudor-style beams protruding from its exterior and welcoming us in with a warming hearth. As I approached the innkeeper beside the threshold, I was greeted with a youthful smile. "Hello lovelies!" A young woman addressed us with a nod of her head. "You two look like you're in need of a room."

I replied with a small smile. "Only for the two of us, if you happen to have room."

The woman flicked through her reservation journal, stopping on the third page with another easy grin. "We've got one on the second floor. No honeymoon suite, I take it?" Thomas and I both stood up a couple of inches straighter, shaking our heads with discomfort. "Right, well, I suppose you'll need a proper kitchen with all of those groceries you've picked up." She gestured towards Thomas's basket, eyeing the chicken hungrily. "You're free to use the one downstairs, if you'd like."

I laughed with a nod. "Indeed, we were going to have a dinner party, but now I'm afraid it's just the pair of us." I was about to invite the young woman to dine, but before I could get another sentence out, she interjected her way in.

"Oh, a feast, eh? Who else was invited that so rudely rejected the offer?"

I felt uncomfortable discussing personal details, but the girl was friendly enough and merely possessed a curious nature. "It was our dear friends, John and Mary Watson. I don't suppose you would know of them, but-"

"Don't know of them? Of John Watson? Of course I know the good doctor!" Thomas and I remained silent. It was our turn to grow curious, and we were certainly succeeding at it. "He's famous among this town, although I've never properly met him. He got into writing after the death of that professor… what was his name again?"

"Moriarty," I grumbled unhappily.

"That's the one. Yes indeed, the good doctor got into writing stories about his adventures and even wrote some political papers. He told the world about Moriarty's plan… all out war with the benefit of his own investments." She 'tsk'ed the idea of it and sent a shiver down her spine. "Everyone was thrilled to know the truth, but some of the less happy folks were said to get a hold on Doctor Watson. He doesn't publish no more, but he had something going for him, I'll say that much. But surely you knew all of this already, being his friend and what have you."

I tried to take in her words as quickly as she spoke them, but when she was finished I found myself with two feelings: fluster and amazement. Without properly making sense of my situation, I thanked her for her story and she handed us the keys. Wishing us a good night, she went about her business as if she hadn't said anything shocking at all.

Thomas and I quickly made our way into our room without a word, boiling up our shock until the door was sealed behind us. "What was she talking about?" Thomas scoffed, tossing his hands above his head. "If I hadn't suspected it to begin with, I would say that John Watson is a man of many secrets. Ones that I believe we need to find out."

"He shouldn't have written political papers," I chuckled nervously. "He said he thought men were coming after him. Surely they were partners with Moriarty. Surely they wanted his head for all of the secrets he must have exposed."

Thomas rubbed his brow tiredly. The food was of little interest to us, but it was too late to make our way back to John's home. We were stuck at a dead end of our road with nothing but a dusty path to lead us on and a dead chicken in a basket.

"We have to speak to him again." My fingernails were taking the heat for my nerves as I chewed them unconsciously. "If we do not, he may continue to be in serious trouble. Perhaps we could help him."

"How so?"

"I know a bit of kick-boxing?"

"Renadale, be serious."

"I don't know!" Angst flooded my voice as I double-checked the door being locked. "I don't know how we plan to save him, but if John Watson has a gun pointed to his head, I shall not be the woman stands by while the trigger is pulled." Thomas said nothing. I presumed that meant he was in full agreement, but with him it could have very well meant the opposite. "Thomas, we have to go and see him tomorrow. We have to get out of here until we know he's safe."

Thomas chuckled darkly and leaned his back against the wooden panels of the walls. "And where do you suggest we go?"

"I don't know where yet, but give me some time and I might find an answer." I let myself fall onto the bed, the knitted quilt providing a comfort that I desperately needed.

Thomas crossed his thick arms over his chest, unafraid to show his disapproval. "What makes you think Watson will comply with leaving his new life behind?"

"I haven't got the slightest inclination." My eyelids flickered shut, the familiar feeling of darkness a comfort to my tired eyes. "I also have no idea where we would go."

Thomas shrugged and sat down beside me. It was his turn to stay calm, and he let me have my moment of frustration. "Let us think about this logically. If John Watson needed to go somewhere safe, somewhere with protection, then where would be the best place?"

"With Sherlock." A knife ran itself through my heart and shattered into invisibility.

"There are other possibilities." Thomas said with a raise of his brow. "I believe you once mentioned a brother. A brother with power."

My body snapped up in response towards the mention of Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes had his fingers in a lot of pies; he was likely to provide protection if we needed it. He would look after Watson and myself, and even Thomas if he could. The idea seemed simple, but I knew with the Holmes brothers there would always be a catch. "I haven't spoken to Mycroft since…" Thomas knew the words to follow.

"Perhaps now would be a good time," he encouraged.

"If I tell John and he does not agree to come-"

"Then you've done all that you could."

The window was open to the evening air, and a light breeze sent the white curtains in our direction. I could feel my hair dancing across my face, my bun tightly kept but suddenly loosening. Thomas let his eyes scan over me until he knew I wasn't joking. The setting was serene, but my heart was not. "When it comes to John Watson, I will not stop trying." My voice was firm as Thomas and I locked eyes. "I will do anything to keep my friend out of danger."

Thomas paused for a moment to light a candle. When he looked back up at me, I was surprised to see a mischievous grin flickering on his face like the growing flame. "Even if that means kidnapping him from his own home?"

"Even if it means kidnapping him from-" My voice cutoff halfway as I realized what Thomas was suggesting. I moved my body backwards, closer towards the headboard of the bed, as if to move as far away from Thomas's suggestion as possible. "Of course we can't do that! Don't let your idiotic American ideas come into play here."

"We can do it," Thomas shrugged. "And we should."

I laughed without pleasure. "We could, yes, but it is inappropriate on several grounds."

"If we take him, we can catch a night train into London. We can convince him on the walk to the station to keep his mouth shut, allowing us to keep him quiet as we make our way into the city. Once inside, we find Mycroft and tell him the situation."

"We don't even know what the situation is!" My voice flew about the room, unafraid to let itself be heard.

Thomas knotted his thick brows together in his forehead. "We may not know why these men are looking to kill Watson, but the fact that they _are_ should be reason enough." I paused, biting on my lip. Thomas had a point and I urged him with silence to continue on. "Now, as for Mary, I'm sure she could use a few days without her husband. Every married woman I've ever spoken to has always managed to spare a few hours away from her husband." He flashed a wink, suggesting something that I did not want to picture.

I shook my head, trying to ignore the crude comment. "You don't know Mary like I do. They were engaged for a year, and now she wants a child. If John is stolen in the middle of the night, I would not be surprised if she chased after him."

"Well, if you know her so well, you can write her a note. Explain to her what's been happening, because I'm presuming the good doctor forgot to tell her that someone was out for his head." Thomas shrugged playfully. "Just a guess."

I let the idea float around my head as Thomas caught his breath. His eyes never left my face, but the idea made me uncomfortable and I suddenly found eye contact difficult. My hands shook as I gripped the bed sheets, scanning the floor for any sign of encouragement. None came, and I knew that this decision would be made alone. "If we go through with this-"

"We will be saving John Watson."

Thomas spoke so certainly that I had to believe him. He was American, after all. Were they not always supposed to be right?

On that April night, my destiny was laid before me and it seemed that I had no say.

I was going to kidnap John Watson.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Sherlock entered the doors of the Sultan's palace with his feet shaking in his boots. He couldn't get the words out of his head.

_The death of John Watson will be payment for us all._

_The Death._

_John Watson._

_Payment._

Everything that had been solid about Sherlock Holmes's life over the past few months was suddenly falling down around his feet. He was certain his friends would be better off without him in the country. He was so certain that he killed himself for it. Or, so they thought. And now it was them who needed him most and he found himself on the other side of the hemisphere.

"Mister Holmes, sir. Your coat?" A young man extended his hand towards the detective, capturing his lost attention.

Sherlock shrugged off his light jacket, served only to protect his skin from the Moroccan sun. His white shirt was damp from sweat, gathered ever since he left the Englishmen in the pub. He knew he was no longer in a great state to speak to the Sultan, but he did not exactly have the authority to reject such a figure.

"If you will come this way." The servant boy spoke perfect English, but Sherlock was suddenly at a loss of his own language as he caught sight of where he was. They were not in the main hall of the palace, but they were certainly in a beautiful section. The walls were white, and seemed to reach their arms up to heaven. Flecks of gold lined the doorways' edges, which were in the style of the familiar Arabic arches. Sherlock tried his hardest to listen to the servant, but his eyes were intoxicated with luxury. All he could think about was how much Renadale would have enjoyed herself.

As the servant boy ushered Sherlock in the proper direction, he let his head roam the ceilings freely. Peacocks and other birds flapped their frozen wings against a painted sun. African flowers sprinkled down from the roof and onto the walls, longing for visitors to dare to reach out and touch them. Sherlock might have, if it had not been for a booming voice.

"You admire the artistry, Mister Holmes?"

Sherlock's head fell down to match eyes with his speaker. Although the Sultan was not adorned with riches, Sherlock knew instantly who he was speaking to. "Indeed, I do, your highness. It is completely unlike that of England's and completely unlike that of my own tastes." He paused, raising his brow and tapping a nearby marble table. "I do admire it, however."

The servants in the room began to feel uncomfortable with the Englishman's carefree nature. He was not nearly as formal as he should be, and he had just touched the Sultan's beloved table. Much to their surprise, however, the Sultan began to laugh.

His thick black beard hid his smile, but his voice happily protruded from his pink lips. "Englishmen amuse me. They speak their mind, but their opinions are never correct."

Sherlock flashed a toothy grin, already liking his company better than he expected. He was still reeling back the discussion of John Watson in his head, however, and tried his hardest to remain cheerful. "If that is how you feel about Englishmen, I am highly curious about your perceptive of Americans." Sherlock bow lowly as he nearly forgot his manners. "Your highness."

"No need for that," the boisterous Sultan exclaimed. He remained seated on his golden chair, his belly popping out from beneath his white robes like a royal stomach should. "You have come here because I have asked it of you. Groveling is not entirely required." The Sultan made eyes with the rest of the men in the room. With a flick of his wrist, they left the pair alone immediately. The room was still with the exception of trees gently blowing against the glass. Sherlock found himself to be intimidated; a feeling he did not come by easily. "Sherlock Holmes, I have a task for you."

"It has been many months since anyone has spoken those words to me, and yet I am entirely grateful for them."

The Sultan leaned forward, his long hair dangling down the sides of his face. His eyes, which previously held merriment, now possessed an altogether darker element of secrecy. "Sherlock Holmes, how much do you know of your friends back home?"

Sherlock's body tensed up as neatly as the statues aligning the walls. Sweat began to break free from his pores; the last thing he was expecting the Sultan to bring up was London. "I'm afraid we've been out of contact for a few months…"

"News reaches Africa, Mister Holmes, in case you'd forgotten. And I heard news that you were dead." Sherlock awkwardly pursed his lips, unable to find an appropriate response. "Clearly, this is not the case. Unless you are willing to argue?"

"No, this is not the case," Sherlock spoke quickly. The pressure of the situation put him far from ease and he found his formalities slipping away with his thoughts. "However, with due respect, I would prefer it if you did not make it known to anyone back in England that I am still breathing. I am trying to work on the best way to tell John Watson that I have not died, without it sounding as terrible as it actually does. I figured a quick slap to the face would suffice, or the continuous reiteration that he was actually dreaming for six months."

"Mister Holmes," the Sultan spoke slowly as he extending his hands in a 'stop' position. "Your secret is safe with me, although I don't know how good of a secret it actually is. And although you are worried that John Watson will be furious with your sudden reappearance, I think you will have a change of heart when I tell you that he may very well be dead in a few weeks. Quite dead."

Sherlock certainly found himself at a loss for words. They were stolen from his heart and replaced with grief. "Why has this information suddenly come about?" Sherlock hadn't mentioned what the Englishmen had been speaking about in town, and already the Sultan knew before him. Was it common knowledge that John Watson's fate was cutting to its end?

The Sultan quietly glanced out the window. Sherlock knew he was about to speak for a while, to try and explain things, which would be good for the detective's faltering heart. "Your friend, John Watson, has been a target of someone's for quite some time. Now has been the proper time to act on such a plan with Sherlock Holmes 'dead' and 'out of the question'. Several weeks ago, I was disguised in town as a common man and I heard talk of John Watson's demise. At first I felt nothing; John Watson was a name I was not familiar with. But then I remembered the political papers he had published. He spoke of ending the oncoming war, and it was then I recalled that he was your friend. Your _partner_, if I may correct myself."

Sherlock's lip twitched in dismay. In half a year, Sherlock Holmes felt further from Watson and Renadale than he ever believed possible. "He wrote political papers? I never knew the man could even write his own signature."

"He wrote politically until threats came at his doorstep. He stopped, and to little surprise. However, I believe that this has all found my ears for a purpose. I need John Watson, and his ideas safe, if I am to politically make my way into Europe. If war breaks out, I do not believe Morocco will have influence on Europe for decades due to economical destruction. Now is the time for Marrakech to move, and for you as well."

Sherlock understood his standpoint on Morocco, but there was one thing that he could not seem to follow. "Where do I come into play during this game?"

The Sultan smiled greedily. He knew that Sherlock was in his grasp and would do whatever he said if it involved the safety of his friend. "Fate, Mister Holmes, has a very funny way of bringing things back to light…" The Sultan's brown eyes connected with Sherlock's, trapping them in a stare of agreement. "Including you."

Sherlock's dusty shoes clicked the marble floor in silence. "You want me to come back from the dead. You want me to travel to England, inform my doctor friend that I am not actually deceased, for the second time in his career might I add, and go about saving him. That seems… simple." Sherlock shrugged, although his heart was racing. If he went back to England, it was not only Watson he would have to tell, but also Renadale. He could not be within the same country and not look upon her face. He would have to tell her and break her heart all over again.

"I am glad you understand, Mister Holmes." The Sultan smiled. "Now…" He whistled for his men to return. They casually placed Sherlock's jacket back over his shoulders, offering him no similar comfort of a blanket or touch of a woman. "I believe it is time to wake up."


End file.
